


The Prince and The Dressmaker

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AND ROCKING IT, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Based off of the work 'The Prince and the Dressmaker', By Jen Wang, Cause I have no clue, Don't ask about the setting, George Washington is a Dad, Guys Wearing Dresses, Hercules dreams big, Hercules is a tailor and dressmaker, I'll add tags as I go along, Inspired by Novel, It's before modern times, King George is Not A Nice Boss, Lafayette becomes a fashion Icon, Lafayette is a prince, Lafayette likes dresses, Prince Lafayette, Royalty, Secrets, Sewing, The Prince and The Dressmaker, but nobody knows that, dressmaking, maybe???, mullette, think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 15:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15609051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: Prince Gilbert is looking for a bride. Or, rather, his parents are looking for one for him. Gilbert himself is too busy hiding his secret from everyone. At night, he puts on daring dresses and takes the city by a storm as the fabulous Lady Lafayette- the hottest fashion icon in the world capital of fashion!Gilbert's secret weapon is his brilliant dressmaker, Hercules Mulligan- his best friend and one of the only two people who know the truth about his dress wearing. But Hercules dreams of greatness, and being someone's secret weapon means being a secret. Forever. And he doesn't know how long he can defer his dreams to protect his friend.A tale about finding yourself and finding others, and finding where you belong.





	The Prince and The Dressmaker

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IDEA IS NOT MINE.
> 
> NOPE NOPE NOPE.
> 
> Not mine AT ALL!!!
> 
> It's based off of this beautiful BEAUTIFUL graphic novel by Jen Wang, called- you guessed it- The Prince and the Dressmaker. This work of fiction is literally just the cutest thing with the exact same ideas and plot driving it as this story. The only reason that I'm writing this at all is because as I was reading it, the perfectness of how the tale would fit in with Hercules and Lafayette as the main characters actually killed me a little. I had to write it!!
> 
> I've taken a lot of dialogue directly from the book, and I give full props to the author for their hard work and creativity. I'm just bending the world a little and putting it into a written format to express it in a Mullette lense of view.
> 
> If you like this story, or have any interest at all in fun, interesting, lovely stories with strong unique characters and heartwarming messages, and beautiful art thrown in to boot, please read the actual work by Jen Wang. She's also written another graphic novel called 'In Real Life' if you like her work!

The morning sun rose over the busy streets of New York, shining on the cobbled roads and the horse drawn carriages making their ways down them. On the sidewalk, elegant lords and ladies made their fashionable ways downtown, with brightly coloured dresses and well fitted suits, idle chatter and smiling faces soaking in the early rays of light.

Three such young ladies sat together in their fine estate, dresses shining with their customary pinks and yellows and blue.

“The prince is holding a ball!”

The women crowded around the letter that had just been delivered, their faces bright and excited. Slowly, the eldest child started reading out the inked words on the page .

 

_Countess Martha of Artois is pleased to host the summer residency of her nephew, the Crown Prince Gilbert of France, at her American Estate._

 

_All eligible young women are invited to attend the Royal Spring Ball celebrating the Prince’s 16th birthday._

 

_His Highness looks forward to making your lovely acquaintances._

 

Trading glances, the Schuyler Sisters let out matching squeals and began their planning for what they should wear, already pulling out all stops for what promised to be the biggest party of the year.

But it was not just Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy gossiping about the dance, the whole city was in an uproar, the Prince being the talk of the town. Posters were being put up of his Royal Highness on walls and hanging from street lamps. Tailors were immediately flooded by eligible young women who wished to look their best for the upcoming ball, or by the parents who wished to marry their daughters off rich.

_Retouches Couture_ was a tailor shop located at the end of main street, small and innocuous as could be. It had run down decour and even more run down workers, all of whom were rushing about like bees in a hive, fulfilling the latest orders with a feverish speed that only came when deadlines were rearing their ugly heads.

The weathered door slammed open. Most of the workers didn’t even look up at the noise, leaning over their various garments in deep concentration and used to the loud interruptions. The owner of the building, however, a Sir George King, looked up from where he was scolding his workers and cursing up a storm over a misplaced stitch, an instant waxing smile growing on his face, entirely smarmy and more than a little fake.

“Can I help you, m’lord?”

A tall man with his brows furrowed in anger dragged a women with long rich black hair deeper into the shop, his derision at the act clear for all to see. The women herself scowled unhappily, tugging fruitlessly at her captured arm and stumbling over her long skirts.

“James,” she hissed, “James, let me go this instant!”

The man ignored her.

“Do you have time to make a new dress by tomorrow? It’s urgent. My sister and I have visited five tailors and every one of them have turned us away.”

King smiled another fake smile, his eyes lingering on the sack of money hanging from the man’s side.

“I take it the young lady is going to the ball?”

James shot his sister a derisive look.

“Hmph- if I can help it. She absolutely ruined her gown by going riding in the woods last night. Riding!”

Maria finally managed to free her hand from her brother’s grip, crossing them over her chest in a sulky manner. Still, there was something smug in the look in her eye as she said, “ _Someone_ forgot to pack my riding clothes-”

“Maria, if you so much as _utter another word-”_

George King, always looking for more coin to spend and always willing to ignore his employees’’ struggles and overbearing workload, quickly cut in.

“I’ll see what I can do. As you can see, we’re extremely busy, but my seamstresses are the best in town. We’ll try to have something for you by tomorrow morning.”

The kind business persona immediately dropped when the man turned around to shout at his workers, face becoming unpleasant and temper short.

“Who’s available!?” Calculating eyes trailed down the rows of hunched over dressmakers, finally landing on the sole hulking frame at the edge of the row, “Mulligan! Come measure the young lady!”

Maria sighed, making her grudging way towards the small cleared area in the corner of the room devoted to just that thing. Hercules, the only man in the entire room of labourers, looked up from where he was putting the final trimmings on a corset, being careful to keep his elbows tucked in close to his sides. He felt big and clumsy in such a hustling space, with its low wooden tables and constantly moving limbs and thin tiny needles and swaths of fabric, but it was also one of the few places in the world where he also felt at peace.

Besides, he did good work and didn’t complain about the long hours, and so King kept him on.

But he had a dream. A big dream. One day, he would leave this little tailor shop behind. He would strikeout, create his own designs, serve his own customers, run his own shop. He would be recognized in the world and rise up through its ranks and-

“Mulligan!”

The daydream crashed in around him, leaving him with nothing but the sounds of the ancient sewing machines and the soft chatter of the ladies working besides him. Sighing, he carefully stood and maneuvered himself around the small bench, resisting the urge to stretch way back and finally get rid of the kinks in his back. He felt tired, the past few days since the announcement of the ball being non stop, and sore, from the constant slouched posture as he examined every little line of stitches.

Still, he made his weary way towards the young woman waiting for him in the corner, tape measurement in hand. With a protesting back, he knelt down and began to take the necessary dimensions.

Maria, holding her arms straight out in a manner that suggested she had been submitted to this treatment many times before, let out a quiet sigh.

“I assure you,” she mumbled quietly, “I hate this just as much as you do, if not more.”

Hercules didn’t say anything. They weren’t supposed to make idle chatter with the customers: King thought they would somehow offend the high society with their ‘measly peasant manners,’ whatever that meant.

And really, he didn’t think that someone like this rich young woman, pampered from an early age with nothing but trivial matters to concern herself over, could ever really understand the troubles he had gone through, how hateful those problems truly were. The hunger, the poverty, the constant questions of where they were going to stay and what they were going to eat.

Or the burning. The burning pit in one’s stomach that constantly screamed about how there had to be more than this, that _he_ had to be more than this, rise up above this, be something, be something _great-_

His fingers cramped. He worked right on through it, resisting the urge to yawn.

He didn’t think that this woman could ever understand the monotonous tiredness of it all, either.

“He means to marry me off,” she said, unaware of Hercules’ thoughts, “like a cow to the highest bidder. It’s been his goal ever since our parents died and he was placed as my caretaker. Can you imagine that? Being seen as little more than a trinket to be given away for a bit of gold?”

_Can you imagine being treated as a therapist by a perfect stranger?_ He thought, but he didn’t say it.

Instead, he said, “Would the lady like her dress identical to the old one, or completely new?”

Maria still had her gaze fixed on her brother, who was trading words with King and completely ignoring her.

“I- I don’t care-” her glare sharpened, “Actually…. Actually, make it look ghastly. Make me look like the devil’s wench.”

Hercules, taking her talk as simply unmeant rebelliousness, absentmindedly nodded and continued taking his measurements. But somewhere, in the back of his mind, the words lingered.

_The devil’s wench…_

* * *

 

After the Reynolds had left, Hercules still had plenty left to do before he could even think to _start_ on Maria’s dress. He had the corset to finish off, some lacing on a skirt, buttons to sew, details to add on….

He quickly lost himself in the work, and by the time he sat down to truly focus on the dress, the other ladies who worked besides him were packing up and readying themselves to leave.

“You sure you’ll be alright, Hercules?” one of them asked. He looked up, seeing it was Elizabeth Sanders. She was a sweet girl, sitting by him most days during their fifteen minute lunch break and sharing with him idle chatter and bright smiles, occasionally taking part with their grudging complaints against their boss, and now she was staring at him with concerned brown orbs.

“Fine,” he murmured, offering a tired smile, “my eyes are a bit sore, but I’ll be fine.”

Elizabeth gave a little frown, pulling her hood up around her face and lifting her lantern as she turned to slip out the door.

“Suit yourself. But don’t work too hard! The job won’t love you back, ya know.”

Hercules waved her off, twisting back to his pages of possible designs and rubbing at his eyes- for they were, indeed, quite sore from their hours of staring and straining in a dim room- fingering on the edges of a drawing of a simple gown, one that would be quick to make but elegant to wear, and match well with Maria’s olive skin tone.

He didn’t think that Elizabeth got it. To her, this job was just that. A job. Something to pay the bills, to get that pretty vase she wanted at the Sunday Market, or her granny’s most recent herbal medicine. To Hercules, this job was… everything. It was everything. The only thing that seemed to ease the fire burning in his gut, that ever growing need to be _someone-_

He sighed, picking up the paper. The bags under his eyes felt like permanent indents. He needed to sleep, but he had to finish this first.

And so he did, finding the right dimensions, cutting the cloth, draping it over the mannequin and sewing it together…

But something wasn't right. Something didn’t _fit._ There was an idea, wiggling around at the back of his mind…

_The devil’s wench…_

He took a step back, gazing critically at the plain pink dress sitting innocently in front of her, barred of the decoration and details that was yet to come.

_The devil’s wench…_

He tilted his head, squinted his tired eyes. There was _something…_

_The devil’s wench…_

Those same brown orbs widened as the idea came out in full, filling up his head and pouring into his limbs until his hands came to life, tugging at the now unwanted gown and dropping it onto one of the other tables. It was useless now, he would have to start from scratch, his creation called for it- no- _demanded_ it, and he was nothing but its humble slave, bringing it to life.

The tiredness was gone. The fire inside of him was burning bright.

He sewed. He sewed until he couldn’t see straight, and then he sewed some more. He sewed until the fire in the hearth burned low, and then he lit a candle and continued right on stitching. When he thought he could no longer keep himself awake, he drank scalding tea in a single gulp and made the shock of the scorching heat on his tongue keep his eyes open.

The hours waned. The dress was finished. In a hazed blur of motion, he packaged it away to be ready for the morning.

The next thing he knew, his head had fallen into his arms, and his eyes slipped shut.

* * *

 

Hercules was not awake for when Elizabeth arrived early next morning, sighing exasperatedly at his slumped slumbering frame and taking the readied parcel.

He was not awake for when that same parcel was delivered into Maria Reynolds hands as she sat in her carriage, her tired face mechanically opening the lid with a bored look, expecting to see another pink froofy gown and nothing more.

Nor was he awake for when her eyes slowly widened in shock, taking in what lay before her.

* * *

 

The ball was beautiful, with that none could disagree.

Ladies made their way around the great room, laughing and chattering and eating the fine food laid out before them. All of them were dressed in their evening finest, a colourful combination of teals and pastels, full skirts jumbled together in a shining collage all made in hopes of catching the eye of a prince.

The royal announcer did his duty as he stood by the door, declaring each aristocrat who entered in a stately manner. All who attended the celebration would turn to see the next fine mistress entering the chamber through the red curtains and applaud lightly, perhaps exclaiming over the artwork of her dress or opening up their small circles of conversation to allow their new member to join them.

Everything happened as it should have, one woman after another.

And then-

“Presenting Lady Maria Reynolds!”

The figure entered the room. Everything screeched to a halt.

There was no applause. No chatter. Even the lively music that had been playing had stopped. Nobody opened their inner circles for the young woman to come and join them. Instead, as she stepped forward, they all stepped back, as if she were a demon to be feared.

Or perhaps a demon’s _wench._

For the girl was standing in a blood red dress, the skirt of which was completely _sheer._ Everyone could see every strap, every inch of skin, leading up to the leotard like bodice, which indeed was the only thing preserving her modesty. Thick layers of feathers acted as the sleeves, and Maria herself had applied dark smears of makeup around her eyes.

Well aware of her scandalous appearance, Maria made her way further into the ballroom, a smirk blossoming on her face. Everywhere she stepped, people backed away, a rising roar of offended cries and sneering comments beginning to follow her.

It only took a few moments for the young woman to reach the banquet table and begin enjoying the delicacies there uninterrupted. It wouldn’t take much longer for her to become the talk of the night, the talk of the town, and none of it good.

Except… except….

Unseen and unheard, a figure watched tucked away behind a curtain. Those eyes were not disgusted or judging, nor were they hateful.

The figure watched, unseen and unheard, and their eyes were _excited._

* * *

 

“AN ABOMINATION OF TASTE AND DISTINCTION!”

Inside _Retouches Couture,_ George King was yelling his head off with a newspaper in hand as Hercules sat before him, his fists clenched tight in his lap and his lips pursed in a quiet sort of anger that bubbled under his skin.

Oblivious to this, George went on.

“That’s what they’re saying about us! When I say us, that is _my_ reputation on the line. Mulligan, these people have the power to _ruin_ me-”

Hercules finally managed to get a word in edgewise, the protests on his creation’s behalf finally making their way out of his mouth.

“I was just giving the client what she wanted!”

He knew that he should probably keep his mouth shut, that he should bend his head low and apologize and get on with it. He didn’t want to aggravate his boss to the point that he fired him. But, but- that was his _masterpiece._ It had been so long since he had really gotten to compose and create just as he wanted to, to make something entirely his own instead of following some cookie cutter design. And he had worked hard on it! And the finished piece had been so vivid and it’s message so clear, screaming just what he wanted it to scream, scandalous though it may be…

“WHAT SHE WANTED-” George roared, his face red and livid, before he cut himself off.

Finally, he looked Hercules straight in the eye, his anger clear and voice escaping in a hiss.

“The client isn’t the one who _wears_ the dress, THE CLIENT IS THE ONE WHO PAYS-”

Perhaps, in another life, King would have gone. Would have cursed and roared and spited and complained for another hour, another two. Perhaps he would have eventually kept Hercules on, even though the teenager would have been on thin ice. Perhaps not.

But that was not the case here.

Just as Hercules’ boss heaved in another breath to continue his rant, Elizabeth ran in through the door, eyes wide.

“Sir, someone’s here!”

Instantly, George seemed to calm himself, pasting a wane smile on his faith and turning to meet the new arrival, even though his face was still flushed red around the cheeks and he gave Hercules a very sordid look indeed.

The figure who entered the building was not the usual aristocrat seeking a new pretty dress to be made. No, this figure, though short in stature, seemed to resonate an intimidating air. They had their dark hood pulled low around their head, hiding the features of their face, and what little of the mouth that could be seen was pulled into a light smirk.

“Pardon my interruption,” they said, as if unaware of the effect they were having on the room, “I heard you’re the tailor Lady Maria Reynolds commissioned her dress from. Is this true?”

George King broke out in sweat, sensing the atmosphere and knowing that it could probably only mean trouble. He glanced back at Hercules, a bit of panic shining in his eyes, and Hercules felt his own stomach sink. The man was going to sell him out: there was nothing for it.

“I- um- yes! The Lady Reynolds was at my shop, b-but it was this girl who made the dress! Just a low level seamstress.”

When King shot him a glare, Hercules unwillingly got to his feet, shifting nervously. He sometimes hated how big he was, especially in times like these, where it felt impossible to hide from being the center of attention. He could feel the figure’s steady penetrating gaze shift to his hunched form, and he immediately averted his eyes to look at the uneven floorboards.

King continued, ignoring this silent interaction.

“I was so busy the other day, I made the mistake of assigning her!” He shoved Hercules forwards so that he stood directly in front of the cloaked being, hiding behind his much larger frame.

_Coward,_ Hercules thought, _you coward._ But he himself was wishing that he had someone to hide behind.

“I see,” said the cloaked being.

George let out a high pitched, nervous laugh at the quiet words, backing up and away.

“It’s funny, you see, I was _just_ in the process of letting her go.”

_This is it,_ the teen thought, _I’m gonna get fired and then get put in some sort of fashion jail. I’ll never amount to anything-_

But then the figure threw back his hood, revealing a comely face and brilliant smile belonging to a short man maybe a few years older than Hercules was, with a thin goatee on the scruff of his chin and something bright in his eyes. Hercules got the feeling that if he and the man were to get in a discussion, the other would be quite the rambler.

“Is that so? In that case, _monsieur_ , I represent a client who would like to hire you as a personal seamstress.”

Hercules blinked. He blinked again. A personal seamstress? Him? That was- that was-

“The offer is three gold pieces a week. Are you interested?”

_Three gold pieces!?_

Both Hercules and George spoke up at the same time.

“What!?

The man in the door smiled brightly, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“The client was very impressed with your work and insisted I come here today right away before anyone else made an offer.”

Hercules opened his mouth to accept, because _three gold pieces a week_ and _being a personal seamstress_ already sounded too good to be true, but George King was quickly interrupting, not too gently pushing Hercules deeper into the shop and calling over his shoulder, “Well, ah, I think there’s been a misunderstanding! When I said letting him go, I meant promoting him to head seamstress!”

The young designer rolled his eyes. He should have known that his boss would have tried something like this. The man had nothing in his mind but greed for power and gold, and now that he knew that there were people who were interested in Hercules, interested and rich enough to pay three francs a week, he wanted to keep her on.

“Mulligan, m’lad, why don’t I raise your wages to four gold pieces a week!”

The stranger cut in before King could say anything more, looking Hercules right in the eye.

“Five.”

George looked back- his eyes widening, his face reddening- before turning again towards the teen, desperation slipping into his tone.

“FIVE?? I’ll- I’ll make you designer!”

But Hercules was done. He was done with the tiny benches and low tables. He was done with the too long hours and the fifteen minute lunch breaks. He was done with King’s insistent yelling and endless criticism.

He was done with amounting to nothing.

This was his chance. This was his moment.

He was not throwing away his shot.

“No,” he said, more sure than he had ever been in his entire life, “I quit.”

He looked down at the man standing before him.

“Tell your client I accept the offer.”

The stranger smiled, bright and quick, nodding his head and sending a wink.

“Very good. I’ll arrange for your transport immediately.”

“Where am I going?” Hercules asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

But the man didn’t answer. Not directly.

“Be ready for pickup early tomorrow morning.”

With a wink and a smirk, the man was gone, leaving behind a room of shocked and silent tailors and seamstresses.

Hercules turned around, meeting Elizabeth’s gaze. Her wide eyes matched his own, but there was also a smile in them. She knew just how much he had wanted this, even if it had never been her own dream.

He felt a grin beginning to pull at his own lips, excitement beginning to bubble up in his chest.

“I have to pack!”


End file.
